


Easily

by kunemoo



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Beginning of Fortress bc I'm garbo, Character Development, Gen, M/M, Or @ least an attempt-, Scout POV chapters will be present too dw dw, Slow Burn, Sniper's got more skill than just with a rifle, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-08-21 20:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16583963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunemoo/pseuds/kunemoo
Summary: Fortress.A company that sought Mick for his skill in murder and Jeremy's skill in juggling speed and combat.Now stuck in a base where teamwork's in need, just what does the future hold for this new team of nine?( A.K.A. Moo's Character Writing Practice )





	1. Running

Solitude. That was all Mick knew now, living the life he was.

 

Personally, that was fine with him. The farther he was from people, the better he seemed to be. The pain in his ribs and face, along with how fast he was packing his few belongings, seemed to prove his case.

 

He swallowed the blood in his mouth. Were he to get a tissue to spit it somewhere, he'd be easier to catch. The scent and taste of iron wasn't the worst he dealt with in his career.

 

No mind someone _somehow_ found him and sent another assassin to kill him. He was somewhere public-- a motel. A place where there could be witnesses and crowds. The walls of his room and the hallways strangled him, knowing that staying here made his chances of death higher than ever before.

 

He _had_ to get out.

 

He zipped his bag shut, reaching into an exterior pocket and snatching out a small first aid kit. After slapping bandages on the modest amount of nicks and scrapes on his face, packed the kit into his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He put on his shades and hat before doing a quick once-over at the motel room. He left no traces... good.

 

With that, he turned and briskly walked out of the room, quietly closing the door. His time was numbered. He had to cover his tracks then run as fast as he could.

 

As he walked, he glanced at his hands-- the gloves were black, partially made of leather. There weren't any noticeable blood stains on the leather parts or soaked through the other material, so it wouldn't smear anywhere.

 

The fewer traces he left of himself, with his blood or another's, the better. There would be less tracks he'd have to cover again.

 

_Again..._

 

Was running-- no, _sneaking_ \-- away from everything all his life was about, now? 

 

Mick blinked, shaking his head. Shaking thoughts that would only slow him down. He'd have more time to reflect and think once he was safer, once it was only him and the silence again.

 

Distant voices and chimes from the T.V. grew louder, the final things grounding him back down to reality. He fished his pocket for the money he owed the motel, looking up to the young front desk clerk in front of him.

 

What bright, young eyes they had. Tired, sure, but they still had a spark he remembered in his past.

 

_Hope..._

 

Looking forward to tomorrow. Enthusiasm.

 

“Can I help you, sir?

 

Mick grabbed himself out of his mind a second time-- he had to _focus_. One moment was what made the difference between life or death. It was how he survived his career as an assassin, including the spy that just made a mess of the motel room he was in.

 

The motel room the poor clerk or housekeeper would probably discover.

 

He snapped himself out of his empathy, politely greeting the clerk and slipping the cash he needed on the counter. He felt blood start to drip from his nose, sniffling.

 

“I apologize,” he began, tipping his hat to the clerk out of courtesy, “'M afraid I'll have to check out a few hours early, mate.”

 

The clerk hummed, looking at the list of names on the clipboard, “Oh, you're not too bad. We've had guests check-in, then leave an hour after when they paid to stay for a night. Though, the good news is that you're late enough to avoid the late fee.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Of course.”

 

He nodded, smiling, “Have a nice night.”

 

“You too, sir.”

 

And with that, Mick continued to walk at a regular pace until he was out of site from the clerk. As soon as the light from the hotel stopped cloaking his back, he quickened his pace and lunged into his camper. He threw his suitcase on the floor and ran for the driver's seat, quickly turning the vehicle on and letting it warm up. He didn't let adrenaline get the best of him, backing out and exiting the parking lot at a safe, slow speed. Not only did acting this way avoid suspicion, but it was simply professional. And Mick wanted to be as professional as a killer could get.

 

He followed the speed limit until he was farther away from the town, slowly pressing his foot further down on the gas pedal. Town lights became rarer and rarer, and soon all the light Mick had was from the moon and his own vehicle.

 

He hoped the alias he used threw off any investigators.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mick didn't stop driving until the only light on the road were from his headlights. He was in the desert now-- the only signs of life being the wildlife, himself, and the stars in the sky.

 

He knew that he couldn't rest just yet-- he had to change the license plate on the van. He doubted the hotel would have captured the plate except through the blurry footage of surveillance cameras, but he also knew how fast authorities worked.

 

As he tried to stand up, he stumbled, falling back into the driver's seat. He tried to lift his arm and grab onto the passenger's seat to help him stand, but it felt heavier than a boulder. The taste of iron was making him dizzy, causing a headache to start. He took a deep breath and put his arm back to his side. It swung down instead, and Mick felt his hand slam into the side of the seat. He was too exhausted to care or even feel the pain.

 

“Bloody hell...” he murmured. The bloody adrenaline must have worn off.

 

His eyelids, hell, his entire _body_ grew heavier the longer he sat. He guessed it made sense-- getting into an intense knife fight at three in the morning wasn't a leisurely activity. Plus, he was sure that the bruises the wanker gave him were also making him crave sleep, just to escape from the aches.

 

In fact, the pain of his wounds seemed to mysteriously ebb away...

 

Mick couldn't remember when he closed his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirens blared in the distance for a heartbeat. Mick shot his eyes open and sat upright, frantically looking at his surroundings. A desert in the daylight... he couldn't remember much other than driving here before going unconscious.

 

He grimaced and groaned.

 

 _Shit_ , he smacked the palm of his hand to his forehead, _The bloody_ plate _, bugger all._

 

He leaped to his feet and sprinted to the back of the motor home, peeking out of the back window. His heart was nearly breaking out of his chest, and he hadn't even made bloody coffee, yet...

 

His Persian green eyes locked on his possible targets, or the more proper term-- pursuers. There the jacks were, going down the same road he was next to. The sirens must have gone off on accident. However, he could tell even through the sunlight that the lights were flashing. That could be both deliberate or honest mistake.

 

It wouldn't be so odd if there wasn't the lack of another vehicle in front of the police cars. Mick connected the dots, sprinting to the driver's seat and starting the car, warming it up. He looked through the rearview mirror, noticing them getting closer, closer...

 

He shifted gears, slowly crawling along until he picked up more speed. He shifted again, slightly sped up. Shifted again. He waited until they veered off the road and into the ginger dirt.

 

Steady...

 

One car seemed to turn. He noticed the lights really _were_ still flashing. They seemed to also be speeding up.

 

_Steady..._

 

The other cars followed suit. He heard the sirens blare for longer this time, and that was when he tried to formulate a plan to outrun the chase. He looked down to make sure everything was right, then he into the mirror again.

 

_Now._

 

Taking a deep breath, Mick stomped on the gas pedal, turning and going in reverse.

 

It was _just_ what he needed. He violently jerked the steering wheel in the direction needed, making a U-turn _just_ beyond the bronze's reach. He shoved the gear out of reverse and into drive. The weight on the gas pedal steadily increased at the same rate the speed dial moved.

 

He saw the mob of police cars slowly creep closer to him. It was fine-- he still had a great lead on them, thanks to the element of surprise. He kept his eyes ahead and behind, using any opportunity that grazed his vision to his advantage.

 

Buildings of a small desert town nearby peeked over the horizon. The buildings... they were oddly familiar. He blinked-- this could work.

 

Mick landed another heavy footfall on the gas pedal speeding towards the town. He let his foot off when he was about ten yards away, prepared. The bronze shortened the distance between them and Mick.

 

Perfect.

 

He sharply turned a corner, steering out of the way of innocent bystanders. One police car followed him too closely, ramming into the front of a civilian's vehicle with a bounce.

 

Mick saw the spectacle in the rearview mirror and grimaced for a heartbeat.

 

 _Sorry, mate..._ he thought, allowing himself a soft sigh of remorse.

 

He snapped his gaze back to the road, speeding and drifting around another corner. There, two more police cars followed him. That was a little unexpected, but he could manage.

 

He noticed an alleyway ahead. Mick sharply turned into the alley, noticing two trucks backing out of entrances at either side. The marksman cursed-- maneuvering through this had _big_ chance of injury and defeat. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the mob behind him and found he didn't have a choice.

 

His heel slammed into the brakes, turning the steering wheel. The camper spun and Mick braced for whatever was going to happen next.

 

The camper twirled away from the dock of one truck and slid a safe distance away from the other truck that was backing out. The vehicle spun 360 degrees and stopped right next to the second truck. Mick widened his eyes, letting out a sigh of relief. The sound of sirens disappeared. He sped forward again, heading for the freeway to freedom. He saw the path he needed to take.

 

He blinked when he saw a van up ahead, soon grimacing. Police cars also blocked two other streets, meaning Mick was trapped.

 

“Divvy fan...” he grumbled, gripping the steering wheel tighter. He saw an officer throw a line of spikes on the road. That was his cue.

 

He swerved a few yards before he was close to the spikes, so that it seemed like his back tire was the closest to getting damaged. The back tire of the van hit the end of the line, which flung itself in the opposite intersection towards the wheels of a moving police car. The line of spikes met tire and soon twisted into the car's axle, and the unfortunate vehicle skidded to a stop. Too late.

 

And even more conveniently, the car that ran over the spikes and the spikes themselves almost spanned across the entire intersection. The other bronzes couldn't move, lest they wanted a flat tire or worse. _And_ since this was such a small town, they had no helicopters available, so he wouldn't be followed further.

 

Mick used this opportunity to speed towards the road that led to the highway out of town, and slowly floored the gas pedal. When the carnage behind him disappeared beyond the horizon of his rearview mirror, he let out a sigh.

 

Today's struggle was over.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The sun was well behind the mountains when he finally stopped the van.

 

He drove off the main road and into the sandy emptiness of the surrounding desert. Without another city or road in sight, all Mick had was the moon and the camper's headlights as his only sources of light. At least the police couldn't follow his tracks anymore. There were none, now.

 

He looked up, the ghost of a smile on his face-- at least he had the stars in the sky as comfort. They always were.

 

When he took the key out of the ignition, all that he could see was glowing in moonlight. Though everything in him ached or cramped, felt heavier than a boulder, Mick knew it was fatal to make the same mistake twice. He shoved himself off the driver's seat. He walked over to a cabinet by his kitchenette, pulling out a small toolbox, a flashlight, and several brand new license plates. He walked outside and went towards the back of the camper, taking a screwdriver from the toolbox and getting to work.

 

He walked to the back of the van and crouched. He gently set the plates down, face up, and turned on the flashlight. He fished for the screwdriver in the toolbox and began twisting the screws that held the worn plate in place.

 

Within a few minutes and the application of several slashed stickers, the new license plate blended in perfectly. His tracks were covered.

 

For now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HHHHHH I'm NERVOUS sharing this...... I feel like I'm copying cries-  
> I've had this idea in mind, and honestly? I also wanna sprinkle some personal headcanons I have about these dorks in my writing. I solemnly promise they will be in character to the best of my ability!  
> This is also character growth practice.... I really need it. This can alternatively be titled "Moo's Character Writing Practice". I should know ALL the cast better, especially if I wanna work on an AU.  
> I hope it's a good read regardless, thank yall for reading!! ｡.｡:+♡*♥


	2. Sinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope you've all had a wonderful start to December~  
> I have a small content warning-- this chapter briefly touches on suicidal ideation. It's almost immediately denied, but your mental health comes first! If this topic is something that sets you off, I wouldn't suggest reading this chapter.  
> Take care of yourself, alright? <3

Two days later. Two _bloody_ days later, and another assassination attempt struck him.

 

One day after his getaway escapade, he reached the next destination a client needed him to be. Last night, he eliminated the target. Today, he guessed an ally of the target's had bad blood with him, and Mick wasn't as careful as he should have been.

 

At least, that was all he could gather, as he gave the corpse in front of him a cold glance. The walls surrounding them belonged to an abandoned shack. Mick met with the client to collect his pay, discreet and brief as ever. He looked around, noticing his client vanished in his tracks, causing Mick to roll his eyes.

 

Figures-- _everyone_ in his line of work fended for themselves. To trust and bond was putting yourself, or even others, in danger. Strangers weren't any different.

 

The good thing was that he at _least_ got his pay. He'd be able to afford more shelter than his camper for the next client. And _maybe_ an ice pack, since the bloke he fought off gave him quite the swift kick to the ribs.

 

He peeked out of the door frame, hurled a rock and retreated back into the shack. No gunshot. He threw another stone farther. No gunshot there, either. The assassin worked alone, then. Just like him.

 

Mick let out a deep sigh, half-stumbling, half-walking out of the shack towards his camper. To his side, he heard the screech of a hawk, though he was too tired to ponder the exact species it was. He glanced down the cliff by the shack and himself. He hawk's silhouette calmly gliding through the dry ravine.

 

He could imagine-- no more injuries, no more regrets. No troubles, pressures, or murders. All he had to do was step over and take a leap.

 

Fall...

 

_...No._

 

That was rubbish. That was a permanent solution to what he was _certain_ was a temporary problem.

 

Plus, he put _himself_ through all this, didn't he? When he was nineteen, stealing a heist boss's car because he had nothing else to speed his dad to the E.R. from their rural home in the bush. From there, forced to become a getaway driver. Then he spiraled, fell until he became who he was, now at rock bottom.

 

He was a thief. Liar. Coward.

 

_Murderer._

 

Mick didn't deserve anything easy, doing the things he did.

 

The sting of a reopened wound thanks to today's fight ripped him out of his head, letting out a deep sigh.

 

He didn't have time to feel sorry for himself-- the past was in the past, no matter how much he wanted to change it. All he could do was better himself in the present. At least no one innocent was killed, this time.

 

He staggered into the camper, closing the door and finally letting his guard down. It only lasted a heartbeat.

 

On the bright side, the silence of the camper was a warm welcome. It was better than gunshots or lethal slices to empty air. It was only himself, peace, and quiet.

 

He felt a warm liquid drip down his temple.

 

Right-- he had new wounds to heal. He should take care of those before they got infected...

 

* * *

 

 

Silence. Darkness. In spite of the ache in his ribs and jaw and many other places, he was sleeping. The only times in his life where his mind was blank.

 

No stresses, nothing. Just silence-- a sweet release.

 

 

 

Then, there was a whisper.

 

So familiar, yet so distant. He couldn't remember who that voice belonged to...

 

“ _Greetings, Michael... you really helped me out of trouble today. Thank you.”_

 

He sounded young, and had a unique accent. Mick forgot the country this young man was from... all he remembered was that it was European. French, maybe?

 

Then he saw his face-- a little long, often covered by a mask. Because of the mask, he was never able to tell much. What _did_ stand out was the man's eyes-- a darker blue, mixed with a sliver of grey. Always questioning, but hid an emotional spectrum as great as a rainbow behind them.

 

His heart dropped to his stomach.

  
He... he remembered only one bloke with eyes like that. He stared at the young man in front of him, unable to talk. A mix of emotions welled up in his throat, something so overwhelming that it kept stealing his voice.

 

The mask covered his lips, but Mick could see the smile in the young agent's eyes. It was brief, a flash and then it was gone. However, he knew better.

 

“Jacques...” he breathed.

  
His own voice startled him. He sounded so _different_ , so much younger than he remembered it ever sounding. Then again, it was during the beginning of his assassin's career where he worked with others, met Jacques. He was younger then.

 

...Hell, how old _was_ he when he had partners on his jobs? He got his foot in the door at nineteen, worked alone close to thirty. So, his early twenties...

 

So, he was old enough, and enough time has passed, for him to _dream_ of old associates. He doubted he was that isolated. Time and time again, life showed him signs that he was simply better off alone without a bond in the world.

 

But Jacques... he was a little more than that. At least, he _thought_ Jacques was more than that, besides only a coworker close to his age.

 

“That would be me, _mon ami._. Though, please do me a favor -- do _not_ say that name in public anymore. The less I am known, the better off I will be. The better off we'll _both_ be. I... I'll admit, I am still trying to think of a good alias.”

 

“Sounds difficult... Thinkin' of a new name for yourself can't be easy,” Mick murmured, adjusting his hat. He could feel the seams on it, still new. A gift from his folks, a slouch hat to keep him safe from the sun. “Couldn't imagine not bein' a 'Mick' or 'Mickey' sorta bloke.”

 

“Indeed..” Jacques nodded, soon looking to Mick with a pleasant glow in his eyes, “When I come up with it, you will be the first to know. You are more... trustworthy, than most of our associates. Even more pleasant. Though, that may be just because of our youth.”

 

Mick allowed himself to snort and smile, oddly finding it was harder to hide. He tipped his hat to the spy, the seams at the brim more solid than what he remembered in years.

 

“C'mon Jac- I mean... c'mon mate, I ain't _that_ much younger than you. 'Ppreciate th' compliment, though. Likewise.”

 

“For that, I am glad.”

 

They were resting on the roof of their boss's headquarters, watching the sunset. Smoke glided out of Jacques's concealed lips, while Mick gazed and marveled how rays of sun painted the sky a wide spectrum of colors. Some days, there was more violet when they met on the roof-- those were days he finished the job late. Other times, there was still baby blue in the sky and Jacques was absent. A job finished early.

 

The roof was where they met, and bonded through their mutual but friendly silence. They sometimes were partners on missions, which seemed to have only strengthened whatever their bond seemed to be.

 

“Sky's bloody gorgeous today...” Mick grinned, turning to his friend, “I know you don't look up as much as I do, but what do y-?”

 

He widened his eyes, swearing his heart ceased to beat. The sunset left his mind, dread instead filling his throat and everything around him.

 

Jacques was suddenly gone. He was alone.

 

Then, he wasn't on the roof anymore, but floating. The sunset and embers of sunlight vanished-- only darkness. Mick found it harder to breathe, something filling his throat and making his chest hurt.

It was as if he was drowning.

 

 _Where...?_ , he scrambled to process his surroundings, frantically swinging his head, _The bloody hell is going on? Where did he go...?!_

 

He tried to call out for the spy, hearing nothing but silence. Tiny bubbles of air poured from his lips, coughing as he tried to take a breath. This wasn't good. This wasn't safe.

 

Mick was _trapped_. He had to _get out of here_.

  
He snapped his head up, seeing a small speck of light above. Hell, getting to the top would probably take _miles_.

 

Damn it, it was worth a try if it meant he'd escape... _whatever_ this was.

 

He tried to swim up, feeling his blood run cold when he felt a force tug him down. Mick kicked and pushed, lunged and fought, but only felt himself being pulled. He looked up and saw the light growing dimmer and dimmer. A scream rang through his mind, but not his throat.

 

It was getting harder to breathe. His eyes were starting to sting. He couldn't get out. _He couldn't get out_.

 

He thrashed again, soon violently tugged down deeper. Unlike the last pulls, the force didn't stop, this time. He let out a scream that time. He was unheard, alone, trapped...

 

The light at the top disappeared.

 

 

 

 

Mick gasped, frozen in place. It wasn't dark-- greeting him was the off-white roof of the camper van. Relief never rushed through him upon seeing the camper van than it had this morning.

 

He... he was breathing. He wasn't being pulled down. He was alive and afloat.

 

Once he calmed down and caught his breath, he felt his eyes start to sting.

 

_For now._

 

He was only safe for now. It never lasted long, and never will.

 

In response, Mick widened his eyes before shutting his eyes and shaking his head. He quickly wiped away tears before they fell. What was he, a bloody preschooler? This wasn't the first nightmare he died in. They were just bad _dreams_ , not reality.

 

A professional knew how to handle their emotions, think _rationally_ , and not let their emotions get the better of them. A professional never let their guard down and have aches in their ribs and jaw. A professional left the past behind them and move forward, not bloody _dream_ about it.

 

Mick was _supposed_ to be a god damn professional. These past few days, he's been straying from it. He failed at keeping his cover, keeping his guard up, and now his wit? Assassins could _never_ lack their wit and survive.

 

But maybe this slow loss of wit, this gradual spiral, was well-deserved.

 

His eyes started to sting again. Grunting, he wiped away more tears before they scratched his bruised and cut cheeks. Emotions were nothing but trouble-- stalling him from the task at hand.

 

He took a deep breath, pain jabbing his ribs. And somehow, that pain grounded him.

 

He shook his head. Mick decided he had enough of his thoughts, sniffling and getting out of the bunk. He had too much shit to do to let a tiny little nightmare ruin his day.

 

Plus, he needed to take a piss.

 

* * *

 

 

Mick let out a sigh, wincing and clutching his side. The day after always hurt the most.

 

However, pain never made him falter. He started the camper and set his foot on the gas pedal. Eventually, the van went forward, as did he. No looking back.

 

Another twinge of pain shot through him, making Mick jolt. He tried to swallow it down. The last thing he needed was to accidentally swerve and crash. He'd lose his home, his safe space. If that happened, he wouldn't know _what_ he'd do.

 

He took another breath. It was hurting to breathe again.

 

Bloody hell, he _better_ not have broken a rib. How was he going to fix that? There wasn't a hospital for miles, and if it healed wrong, he'd have a serious disadvantage to worry about.

 

 _As if nothing else could go wrong,_ he thought, bitterness resting in his chest.

 

Another bullet of pain and Mick had to slow down. He eventually pulled to the side and stopped, as the pain didn't go away. Meaning...

 

“Fuck me dead...” he muttered, wincing as the twinge intensified.

 

He took a deep breath. Pain. Hissed through his teeth. Mick wished he could sigh, but the current circumstances proved such to be a bad idea.

 

Great... his professional life _and_ physical life was softening. Now, his ribs were cracked. And if he was lucky, bruised.

 

He faintly inhaled, and the pain got even worse.

 

It hurt, it hurt, it _hurt_. And it was _infuriating_.

 

What was _wrong_ with him? First, he started to falter, then he got reckless. And now, an injury? One that will probably get him _killed_ if another assassin's on his trail?

 

What was worse was that there weren't any jobs he had-- no direction. All there seemed to be was Mick, his memories, and the things he felt, body and mind.

 

He was used to fending for himself, no assassin would be alive if they weren't self-sufficient. But _this_... all these events within the past week were building up.

 

Why did this bloody string of events all have to happen at once? His professionalism seemed to have crumbled, turning into the sand blown away by the desert wind outside. It trapped him, cornered him without hope of escape.

 

_What's the world trying to bloody tell me, that I deserve to writhe in pain?!_

 

He grunted, rage burning in his chest and frustration stinging his eyes.

 

 _If that's the damn message you're trying to send, I already know_ , he took another breath, fighting off his own nerves, _I'm a_ murderer _, blokes like me don't get happy lives._

 

Or maybe... maybe this was how it was all going to end for him. Alone, in pain, very likely to die alone. Swiftly murdered without thought or remembrance, just like the ones he was hired to take care of.

 

Was that it?

 

If so, he didn't know how he felt about it. As cruel as it seemed... maybe it's what he deserved. For going down this path, and doing the things he has done. Having plenty of blood on his hands, a sliver of it from innocent people.

 

That was it.

 

Mick took a deep breath, wincing. He turned the car off, taking the key out of the ignition.

 

He was a bloke who never looked back, stopping emotions from blinding him. So, he swallowed the uneasiness welling up in his chest. At least he could face whatever happened with dignity. His bruised, beaten, exhausted dignity. What happened in the end would be the result of his own efforts.

 

That's how life worked, wasn't it?

 

Mick closed his eyes. It was him and silence-- the calm before the inevitable storm. Silence was serene, and it brought him peace despite the stress pain brought him.

 

He was ready. Whatever came his way, whatever worse pain he was in, however more reckless he became-- he was ready.

 

Then, a sudden, sharp tune blared through his ears and across his brain. The phone was... ringing?

 

Well... it wasn't like he had much to lose at this point. Best case scenario, it was a new client or the call leading to his arrest. It was _something_ besides a lonely death.

 

He turned and pushed himself off of the chair, knitting his brow and grunting. How the hell did other folks _move_ when their ribs were bloody injured? He staggered towards the phone, taking a deep (though aching) breath and touched the phone with a finger.

 

Well, he was ready, wasn't he?

 

“Be professional, mate...” he murmured, picking up the phone and answering, “G'day. May I ask who 'm I speakin' to?”

 

 _Hell_ , he was losing control of his accent-- the only thing he couldn't control when nervous. There was nothing to shake like a leaf about, he told himself. And even if there was, he couldn't let his nerves overtake him. Doing so may prove fatal.

 

On the other line was a woman's voice. Younger, basing the voice itself. And _certainly_ too nice of a tone to be conversing with a criminal.

 

“Good afternoon, sir. Let's see.... is this... a Michael Mundy, by any chance?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOODNESS GRACIOUS. Life's been busy outside of writing, but I haven't given up! The winter seasonal is also in the works, and I am DEFINITELY getting it done! Though.... finals coming will probably make the third chapter come a lot later than I want it to... //sweats//  
> I feel like I made Sniper a little too brooding in this chapter, too... maybe possibly going overboard with it. But, with how I want this story to go, everyone will grow. ♪ Everyone starts somewhere, some bleaker than others.  
> Also, there should be one more chapter, and after that we'll get 3 chapters in Scout's POV! Then after those three, it will alternate POVs every chapter. I hope it isn't too much head-hopping. (´･ω･` ;;; )  
> I hope December continues being nice to you all! Oh, and happy first day of Hanukkah to those who celebrate!! ♡ ♡ ♡  
> Have a wonderful day, and thank you all so much for reading!｡.｡:+♡*♥


	3. Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!! <3333  
> No warnings this time, though writers' block hit me hard so this chapter may be weaker than the other two!!  
> More notes at the end!

Mick's heart plummeted quicker than a bird struck by an arrow while in flight. No sooner did it drop, did his pulse begin to race.

  
  


It was a stranger on the other line. A stranger who somehow _knew his name_.

  
  


Shit, _shit,_ _ **shit...**_

  
  


_...No._

  
  


He shook his head, trying not to panic. He promised himself-- whatever came his way, he was going to face it. Face it with what dignity he had left, keeping his feet planted on the ground regardless of the outcome.

  
  


This was the moment.

  
  


Maybe he just hoped it wouldn't have come for him so soon.

  
  


Mick took a deep breath. No matter, he was professional. He had a conversation to (somehow) continue.

  
  


However, it seemed like this mystery speaker could read his mind.

  
  


“I get it if you're suspicious,” she ventured, and that was when he realized he must have been silent for a while. Bloody _great._ “If it helps, you covered your tracks well while I was looking for you. It took a while to get any leads on you, so you did a really good job. I'm here to lend you an opportunity, of sorts.”

  
  


Mick's mind, constantly coursing through a river of worrying thoughts, went blank. It was certainly the... unexpected... twist to what his theory was. He shook his head to clear it.

  
  


He couldn't be trusting. This could simply be a way to lure him to capture. He pondered, wondering exactly how willing me was to bite the line and seal his fate.

  
  


“Mind if I ask who this is, miss?” he inquired, hoping he wasn't being too rude. Surely wanting to know your caller didn't cause anyone harm, did it?

  
  


At least, he was certain it wasn't an assassination attempt from afar. All his experience in the line of criminal work trained him to avoid standing in open spaces and in front of windows without thinking. He currently hid behind the counter, crouching slightly. Meaning that, unless he really wanted to risk getting another painful injury, he coudn't test if the call was simply a ruse outside of police.

  
  


“I go by Miss Pauling. Is this a mister Mundy I'm talking to, or...? I have important information to go over.”

  
  


It was a trap. It had to be. He would get coordinates to a secluded area, and he would somehow get captured. And if he wasn't captured, he'd be killed. There wasn't any other possibility that crossed his mind.

  
  


The thought terrified him. Being so uncertain, everything out of your control. Then again, Mick felt he didn't deserve the luxury of choosing-- the blood on his hands should have sealed his fate long ago.

  
  


Even so, he had to deal with what was laid in front of him right now.

  
  


“If I _do_ say yes...”

  
  


“You don't have to worry about an assassination attempt. All the leads I have on you ended in a small town where the axle of a police car was totaled. I mean it when I say that it was _really_ hard finding you. Though, a life on the run makes covering your tracks easier, and all.”

  
  


Mick was dumbfounded, “How...”

  
  


“I promise, this isn't some undercover mission leading to your arrest. The opposite, actually.”

  
  


“That sounds a lil' too good t' be true, miss...”

  
  


“I don't blame you. That skepticism is probably what kept you alive,” she soon began muttering, Mick hearing papers sift in the background, “Let's see... Ah, I remember one.”

  
  


_Remember one what?,_ he wanted to ask, brow knitting in both confusion and concern.

  
  


“By any chance, do you recall an Australium heist happening about... last week, or so? The one where both the bodies and Australium had vanished?”

  
  


How could he forget?

  
  


Cases like that were rare. Assassins often killed then left without a trace. Cleaning up after yourself was too parlous, whether due to the risk of attack or giving yourself away. There was the minimal amount of blood at the scene, no weapon nor even footprints in within a ten mile radius to be found. It was an enigma who the culprit was and what their occupation was, whether they were even an assassin. The case soon grew cold, and that was the last Mick heard anything about it.

  
  


“Indeed I do.”

  
  


“Then you probably remember where it was, yeah?” she inquired, a level tone in her voice, “A small shack in the middle of nowhere, but it has a good vantage point for snipers taking out a heist leader or two. Sonatine Point.”

  
  


_Sonatine Point..._ Mick widened his eyes, looking down to his hand in shock.

  
  


Only killers and heist underlings such as him were aware of its existence. Not even authorities knew of its coordinates, as any who have dared to snitch about it mysteriously went missing. Additionally, those outside of the criminal world with knowledge of the place suffered a similar fate.

  
  


Yet, this “Miss Pauling” sheila was still _alive_.

  
  


He was silent, pensive, “Jus' what's your plan, miss?”

  
  


“I'm an honest woman of my word, and that's a promise,” he could hear the confidence in her tone, “I'm calling to offer you a job for a company called Mann Co.”

  
  


Mick raised a brow. Mann... that name didn't sound familiar in the slightest.

  
  


“You may know its CEO?” Miss Pauling inquired, “Saxton Hale?”

  
  


Saxton Hale... _**wait.**_ _The_ Saxton Hale?

  
  


As in the _strongest man in all of Australia?!_

  
  


Bloody _hell_ , he might as well have took a swig of scotch. The realization hit him so hard he had to gasp for air. That, in turn ended up making him choke, coughing as a result.

  
  


Great. _Bloody great._ His first contact beyond small talk, his first _professional_ talk in _years_ , and he had made himself look-- _sound_ , actually-- like a fool. What a good step in the right direction. Impeccable.

  
  


Enough beating himself up.

  
  


The concept itself was hard to comprehend... what would a bloke like Saxton Hale be running a business for? And why would he seek out a killer like _him?_

  
  


“I'm.... familiar. Know th' name, an' all.”

  
  


Miss Pauling chuckled, “Yeah, it's quite a weird juxtaposition. However, it's really true. Plus, I'm sure _that's_ not some of the oddest things from Australia... is it?”

  
  


Mick honestly had to think. Spiders the size of dinner plates, spiked hail sometimes fell from the sky, the only friendly mammals were bilbies, wombats, and _possibly_ wallabies. That that didn't even cover Australians themselves-- everyone, except for him strangely, got Australia-shaped chest hair and were able to bench press 500 lbs with no problem. Not to mention their ability to bust through a wall of any material without any serious injury and creating a hole shaped like the country instead of their silouhette.

  
  


In other words, Miss Pauling had a point.

  
  


“Guess you're not far off,” he nodded, the corners of his mouth slightly turning up, “I do have to ask, though. What would Mr. Hale want wiv-”

  
  


_A murderer like me for?_

  
  


“...A bloke like me for?”

  
  


“I'm afraid that'll have to be classified information until you take the offer,” she replied, something... softer about her tone, “How are you feeling about it, by the way?”

  
  


Mick inhaled, but didn't say a word. Not out of fear nor shock. This was calmest he had been in days.

  
  


What stole his voice was uncertainty. Miss Pauling did enough to prove that the job offer wasn't a ruse, now he just had his own mind to tackle.

  
  


Exactly _was_ this job? Would it doom him to accept it, snatch him away from his evasive lifestyle and towards an end worse than capture and a trial? Or would it be the key to escape, to running away from mistakes and regrets, to lose the guilt of still being able to breathe? It could be neither, or even both if he was unlucky enough.

  
  


It was a lot to take in-- the offer, accepting his fate, this opportunity that seemed too good to be true.

  
  


His worrying thoughts were surprisingly minimal. It was processing so much information that made his head tingle as if static danced throughout his mind. He felt a tension along his spine. No hunch-- only a sign of being overwhelmed. Meaning...

  
  


He let out a deep, long sigh. Bloody hell, Micky Mundy was stuck yet again. He was stuck pondering again. This time, he was wondering if the tantalizing change that was hanging in front of him would be worth it.

  
  


Moreso, if _he_ was worth it.

  
  


“Getting a little silent on your end. Everything okay, Mister Mundy?”

  
  


_Shit._

  
  


Alright, enough brooding. He wasn't the bloody loser of a teenager that he was all those years ago. Mick in the past did nothing to help himself. Mick of the present was trying his damn best to turn a new leaf, or at least do so as closely as he could.

  
  


He needed to be _just_ a little honest, give himself some time...

  
  


“Could...” he swallowed, “'Reckon I need some time t' think 'bout it. 'S that possible, miss?”

  
  


Silence on the other end. Mick felt his heart and stomach drop. Never was he hit with such a big wave of relief as he currently was when Miss Pauling spoke again.

  
  


“I personally don't mind. The company I'm with, though... I'm sure I can work something out,” she hummed in thought for a few heartbeats, soon gasping, “Okay, I got it. I'll call you again in a day or two. I think that's the most I'll be able to squeeze from them without getting us in trouble. Sound good?”

  
  


Mick sighed in relief, giving the worn wall of his camper a grateful smile, “Miss Pauling, you're a bloody miracle worker, ma'am.”

  
  


“Of course, don't mention it,” the chuckle soon vanished, replaced with her more professional tone, “Alright, I have to go. I'll call you in a day or two, okay?”

  
  


Mick nodded, “Got it, miss.”

  
  


They exchanged goodbyes and well wishes, hanging up their phones. Mick took his hat off, running his hands through his thick, brunette hair.

  
  


Did all this really happen?

  
  


He took a deep breath and winced. Well, if the pain in his ribs was still there, then so were the minutes that made up the phone call.

  
  


This meant he had a choice. To take the offer, or decline...

  
  


To decline would probably be running away from yet _another_ thing.

  
  


He may fail himself, but at least he'd be familiar with something. It was _far_ from the best concept to be sentimental about, it was even unhealthy about how close he held that habit to him.

  
  


Though, in spite of that, at least knowing he could always run somewhere else was always an option. It was... predictable. Predictable and somewhat safe.

  
  


It was the only thing he was certain about, the light at the end of the of all the assassination attempt-filled tunnel that always left him on his toes. It was his anchor, despite all the trouble it brought. He could always run to somewhere else. He could always escape. He could always do _something_.

  
  


He _did_ promise himself today-- whatever came his way, he would face it head on. The complete opposite of what he considered his security blanket.

  
  


Maybe this offer was the chance to prove he could? Jumping headfirst into something new, only to bite the bullets that came. To go beyond what was comfortable to him in hopes of changing... somewhere. Or some _thing._

  
  


Maybe even something... _better._ Better than what he has now, better than what he _was_ , now.

  
  


He could be a new Mick. A _better_ Mick. A Mick that wasn't a coward, or a helpless, sitting duck for bad luck and murder attempts. A Mick who, for once in his life, didn't run away. Who wasn't an unprofessional, spineless, or an emotional and moral mess. Who could do nothing but push the second thoughts, regrets, and self-criticism to the back of his mind to keep himself sane. He could do that, _all_ of that maybe, if he had an out.

  
  


And with only a phone call, there it was. His out. His possible chance to make all those things a reality.

  
  


He took a deep breath. Alright.

  
  


He would really take the offer. He was going to go through with it. There was one particular question that wasn't speculative. And the more the question repeated, the more the question became immediate.

  
  


Mick took a deep breath-- he was fine. The call would come soon, and he could ask then. He could ask what inquiries he had left when Miss Pauling called.

  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  


The phone sang through the camper and Mick took a deep breath. He was ready for this. He took forty-eight hours to prepare and reassure himself, though maybe he didn't put in as much effort as he should have.

  
  


Then again, driving off the road and crashing from thinking too much wasn't the greatest first impression. It was possible he was wrong, but as a sensible bloke, he wasn't going to test such an idea.

  
  


He shook his head and cleared his mind. If the phone stopped ringing, he'd lose this chance. He had to act now.

  
  


Mick picked up the phone, greeting first, “G'day, Mundy on the other line. Who is this?”

  
  


“Hello again, mister Mundy,” came Miss Pauling's friendly response, “Hope your day's going well. Any luck making a decision yet?”

  
  


Mick hummed, “Well, yes I suppose... but I reckon I have some questions, first.”

  
  


“Sure, fire away.”

  
  


“So, if I _do_ take the job,” he ran a hand through his hair, “I reckon you know 'bout my... track record. I'm not the most wanted, but 'm not the most slippery killer out there. One way or another, the bronze or another assassin'll probably track me down again.”

  
  


“Okay, this might sound too good to be true. It might sound as if I'm telling you what you'd want to hear, but this is an actual thing that they do,” she began, seemingly more chipper, “But if Saxton Hale is the CEO of a company that isn't related to anything remotely Australian, anything is possible... Seriously.”

  
  


“Sounds like you've seen a lot, miss.”

  
  


“I don't think you'd believe me if I told you some things I've seen on the job,” she chuckled, “Alright. In all seriousness, we promise all of our employees something-- security. No matter how gritty, blood-covered and violent their pasts were, we can wipe them away from any record they wanted or needed.”

  
  


Mick's jaw dropped, but soon gained feeling as skepticism emerged. That _did_ sound too good to be true. He raised his brow, and he had a feeling the sheila herself heard such.

  
  


“I know, sounds like a stretch. Though, we have to think about it-- I knew about Sonatine Point. Blood is obviously on my hands, since that means I've killed somebody at least once.”

  
  


He nodded, “Reckon that's right.”

  
  


“I've been under Mann Co. for years, too. Or, uh, at least long enough to be trusted as an assistant and now a recruiter. So, steady job and involved in the criminal underworld, right? Though, the name 'Pauling' hasn't been heard on the news, has it?”

  
  


Mick was silent, staring at the floor and hoping to find an answer in the carpet. It must have gone on for a while, since Miss Pauling's voice sounded worried when she hastily spoke again.

  
  


“Wait... _has it?_ ”

  
  


Mick shook his head, before letting out an exasperated sigh. He was a bloody idiot-- she was over the _phone_.

  
  


“No, don't worry, I heard nothin' about you.”

  
  


She let out a sigh, “That's a relief. But yeah, don't worry about being a sitting duck for the cops. No one's going to get in trouble because of you, or anything like that.”

  
  


The weight that lifted off of his shoulders was indescribable. He he wouldn't get more ribs broken... no more targeting or duels or feeling like he was fighting a battle he couldn't win. He'd be safe, _truly_ safe.

  
  


He'd be _free_.

  
  


This really _did_ sound too good to be true.

  
  


“That's a relief then, miss,” he replied, grinning. He was about to speak again, but something stole his voice yet again.

  
  


He... he truly could turn a new leaf. Something he could only dream of. Something he eventually stopped thinking about, it started to ache so much. Now, he truly, _really_ had that chance.

  
  


And he _needed_ to take it with both hands.

  
  


“So, mister Mundy, how are we feeling?”

  
  


Mick took a deep breath. He was ready.

  
  


“I reckon I'd like to take the offer, Miss Pauling. Thank you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wh E E Z E I NEVER THOUGHT I'D BE THIS BUSY DURING BREAK. Sorry for not living up to my word, considering the timeframes I post!! (mainly on twitter now @kunemhu!!)  
> But yeah! Happy holidays and happy new year guys!! <33333  
> Any resolutions? I actually made some this year, though nothing drastic so I don't break them. And since it's the year of Jupiter, planet of Sagittarius, and I'm a Sagittarius, I will spread good vibes to all the lovely people I know! Good vibes and support for all of you lovelies, thank so much for sticking with me! Let us continue to make more happy memories and go on forward, yeah? ♡
> 
> But YES Sniper's beginning arc is done!! Now for Scout's. >:3c  
> I'll definitely work on Easily and another drabble for an AU my sweetheart and I have. Though, I'm afraid I cannot give a date. I will for sure work on them both, though! <3  
> I hope everyone is having a great winter season. And if not, stay strong, and I hope that the pain and/or stress eases soon! ♡ ♡ ♡
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, have a wonderful day!! *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> Also p.s.: @ MitzvahRose I think I saw you during a TF2 game!! I was Winter Starlore lol. It was nice meeting you and sorry if I came off as awk. It was fun playing the map!!


	4. Quickstep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w h E E Z E S....... This took me too long...!! Happy Valentines Day, if you celebrate. I hope it was delightful for you all!  
> This chapter is probably filled to the BRIM with filler.... My apologies! Writer's block hit me hard for most of this, especially the middle.  
> Though, I hope that it somehow helps set the mood and atmosphere! ^ 7 ^ )  
> Enjoy! <3

Wind danced through his hair and his form as he sprinted through the allies. Away from trouble, away from any guards that really wanted to chase him this far.

  


It was nothing new.

  


He could never really explain it, the thrill of rushing to get to places. _Exciting_ places, that is. Running to somewhere that was going to be fun had a _hell_ of a bigger payoff.

  


For example, there was the scenario he was currently in-- he snuck into a concert, but not just _any_ concert. It turned out one of the guest singers was none other than his brother Rocky, who hasn't done singing anywhere besides cafes.

  


And this was a actual _concert._ This was freakin' _huge_. So, of _course_ he wanted to go, being the supportive baby brother he was.

  


Though there were two problems-- he got called in for work. And even if he had the day off, tickets would have been sold out, anyways.

  


He was always one to agree to disagree, though. This issue was easy to solve-- sneak in and use a sick day, of course!

  


So, he did just that. Now here he was, sprinting home as fast as he could, trying to beat the _entire_ family so that he didn't get the usual _'Jeremy Morello, where the hell have you been?!'_ welcome.

  


He always got that one when getting home at... odd times. He loved his brothers and mother, but after this little workout of his, a scolding wasn't what he wanted to be met with.

  


Jeremy leaped onto the lid of a trash can and attempted to leap over a chain-link fence. The blood was rushing through his ears and he found delight pulsating in his chest.

  


Soaring without any sudden snags, the jump was a success. He landed on his feet, knees bent to avoid injury. He ran a hand through his dishwater blonde locks, giving the scenery in front of him a confident smirk before continuing his little race.

  


He sprinted forward, hopped over fences, leaped up stairs. And at this rate, he knew he had a _big_ lead on Rocky and Coriander. In fact, he would probably beat them home in no time. Car or no car, he was the fastest thing on the Boston streets.

  


And today just happened to be another fine example of that.

  


Then it suddenly wasn't.

  


He was about to hop over a small ledge when he apparently undershot his jump. The top of his shoe ended up hitting the brick, causing him to crash onto concrete with only his arms to catch his fall.

  


“God damn it...”

  


There was a sting on his knees and hands, but he was sure he'd be okay. After all, he and his family had worse injuries.

  


Plus, _nothing_ could ever get him down or trap him. _Hell_ no.

  


So he stood up, dusted himself off, and kept running forward.

  


He was soon out of the corners of cafes, bars, and concerts, heading towards apartments and familiar alleyways. He glanced up, searching for Rocky's signature car. He couldn't find it-- even better.

  


He skidded to a stop at one corner, turning and swerving up the stairs to his family's apartment. He made it to the door and looked in the parking lot, sighing in relief to see Rocky's parking spot empty. Jeremy took a while to catch his breath-- he couldn't just _walk in_ , wheezing like he ran a marathon. Which in a way, he sort of did.

  


Everyone would get suspicious, _especially_ Ma. She learned from seven other troublemakers in the family, after all. Just one of the many disadvantages of being the baby.

  


Though, it made him think a lot more, which always helped somewhere, he guessed. Like now, making sure he didn't stick out like a sore thumb when trying to lie out of trouble.

  


He unlocked the apartment door and casually walked in, whistling to one of his favorite tunes. He peered into the kitchenette, but there was no sign of Ma. The overhead fan was on over the stove though, so she must have been in the room.

  


Maybe it'd look more normal if he chilled in his room for a bit before meeting Rocky at the door.... yeah.

  


Yeah, that could work! Off to his sanctuary of a room he'd go!

  


“Ma just left. She made spaghetti. Missed that stuff.”

  


Jeremy jumped, throwing his keys up in the air and snapping his head towards the direction of the voice. There Rocky was, leaning back on the couch, legs crossed. His foot was tapping, whether out of annoyance or to an invisible song, Jeremy wasn't sure.

  


His keys were pulled down by gravity and hit him in the head before bouncing into his palm, and that was what snapped him out of his shock.

  


Oh fuck.

  


He couldn't know. Rocky could _not_ know exactly where Jeremy was, otherwise news would reach Jordan, who would tell Soda, who'd tell Cash, then K, and then _one of them_ would tell Ma.

  


And if it reached Ma...

  


Jeremy tried to push the thought aside.

  


Act casual, he told himself, maybe Rocky didn't know a thing and he'd get out of this tangle of trouble with no problem.

  


Yeah, he's got this. Totally! He was Jeremy Morello-- he was the bee's god damn knees.

  


“Hey there, Rocky,” Jeremy greeted, giving his brother a wave and definitely _not_ picking at his shirt, “So, how'd that concert go? And how did you get home so early?”

  


That was the real question. Ever since he hopped the fence as the concert ended, he left Rocky in the _dust_. He should've gotten there first. The place he worked at was even closer to home than the outdoor venue!

  


Rocky chuckled, pulling on the collar of his leather jacket, “Turns out Cori knew a shortcut.”

  


Jeremy raised a brow and tilted his head. He was about to speak, but Rocky beat him to it.

  


“I know what you're thinkin', Jerbear,” he gave his baby brother a knowing smile, running his hand through his black locks, “And yes, he knows a lot of different shortcuts. More than _you,_ even. But that's because we travel by car, so there's a lil' disclaimer for ya. Man, is there something that boy _can't_ do?”

  


Jeremy rolled his eyes, grinning, “Yeah, yeah. We all know you're head over heels for him.”

  


Rocky snorted, “ _Duh_ , we're going steady. He even bought me flowers for that little performance of mine tonight.”

  


“Yeah, how was that, by the way? Sorry I couldn't make it, man.”

  


The singer stayed silent, soon raising a brow. Jeremy blinked back. Rocky narrowed his eyes, keeping his stare even as he blew a black wave of hair out of his face.

  


_Shit._

  


“Pretty sure you can answer that yourself.”

  


“Whaddya mean by that?”

  


“Bro. You're my little brother. I know how you work, man.”

  


Jeremy bristled, “What's _that_ s'pposed to mean?!”

 

“ _Meaning_ that I know that you won't just take no for an answer with this sorta thing,” Rocky couldn't help but give his little brother a fond smile, “You're too stubborn to take somethin' at face value. It's both a virtue and a pain in the ass.”

  


Jeremy remained silent, casting his eyes to the ground. He knew not talking would confirm Rocky's theory, but he didn't want to dig himself a deeper grave.

  


“Plus, you have a hole in your pants and a few scrapes on your arm and knees.”

  


_God damn it._

  


Wait a minute, he couldn't panic now. Rocky was only suspicious, so he _certainly_ still had a chance, right?

  


“I know you support me, and I really can't thank you enough for that, Jer,” he furrowed his brow, “But _please_ tell me you didn't sneak in there.”

  


_**Fuck.** _

  


Well, he guessed he had no other choice. He had to somewhat spill the beans. Keyword _somewhat_. So, he wouldn't be exactly _lying,_ but..

 

“Well, I didn't _sneak in_ sneak in,” he began, scratching the back of his neck, “It was just... I _wanted_ to get a ticket, but they were, uh... they off to print more and I was runnin' outta time to see you singin', was all. I left them money and everythin'.”

  


Rocky narrowed his eyes, tilted his head, and crossed his arms. Hell, Jeremy knew _exactly_ what he was doing-- he was waiting for his little brother to crack. _Just like_ Ma's technique.

  


Rocky knew the guilt for lying would eat at him and then he'd spill the beans. It was always a successful tactic, right?

  


Well, _not tonight._ Jeremy was, for once in his life, not saying _anything_. He wanted his brother to be happy-- he sang to a live audience _outside_ of a too quiet cafe. That was fucking amazing!

  


Rocky remained silent, and Jeremy didn't budge. It was a stalemate. It soon turned into a staring contest, until Rocky finally relented and stood, stretching.

  


“Alright Jerbear, you win,” Rocky sighed, walking towards the kitchenette, “Well, might as well help clean up a bit. Knowin' Ma, she'll be throwing a party because of my little shindig tonight.”

  


“Man, you did great!” Jeremy leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter, “Your voice echoed through the place, and I betcha that was some of the most wholesome toned notes they've ever freakin' heard.”

  


Rocky turned back, giving his younger brother a spunky grin, “Ya really think so?”

  


“I _know_ so.”

 

“Alright, enough talkin'. I'll go and take some dishes out, since I'm puh- _retty_ sure Ma's gonna use 'em. You-”

  


“Lemme guess-- I take out the trash.”

  


“You know it,” Rocky winked.

  


“Usin' me for my speed,” Jeremy pretended to pout, putting a hand over his chest, “I don't believe you. I thought we were _brothers!”_

  


“We _are_ brothers, silly. But we're also on limited time. I also put a little surprise for Cori in the fridge...”

  


Jeremy gave him a smirk, “Is it a weddin' ring?”

  


“I _wish_. You know how expensive those things are?”

  


“Not really, but I wouldn't doubt it.”

  


Neither one mentioned he elephant in the room, nor did they want to. There was another reason a ring couldn't exactly be bought. Damn it, why did Jeremy have to go and say something so _stupid?_

  


But there _was_ a silver lining... Cori and Rocky were at least happy, right? That's what _really_ mattered, even if the chucklefucks in charge were too stiff to change. All it really was is just a stupid paper, anyways. Plus, _nothing_ stopped the Morellos for long.

  


Then it got quiet. Oh, this wouldn't do at _all_. Not when Jeremy was around.

  


“Yo, I'll give whatever it is some artistic critique. Maybe even some improvements.”

  


It was Rocky's turn to pretend to be hurt, putting a hand to his chest, “Jeremy Leone Morello... have you no confidence in my abilities?”

  


“Man, of course I do! _You're_ the one who made it on a stage.”

  


“True that. Okay, now hurry and take out the trash before we just keep talking the whole time. I'm looking forward to hearing your _'artist's perspective'_.”

  


He gave a casual salute, “Roger, Rocks.”

  


He was out, then back in no time. There _was_ a reason he was the family's garbage man, after all. Jeremy was just _the_ fastest Morello, and that was a fact.

  


A chuckle greeted him once he stepped inside, “Took ya long enough!”

  


“Shut it. I think you're just _jealous_ since I'm the fastest one in the house.”

 

Rocky pretended to scoff, “Me? _Jealous?_ You're talkin' _crazy!”_

  


“Looks like _you're_ the one who's talkin' crazy 'cause I still don't see anythin' new from the fridge.”

  


“ _Shit._ Thanks for reminding me.”

  


“Yeah, yeah,” he leaned on the kitchen counter, “So, what's this surprise thing?”

  


“Shh, this is something I need to _really_ concentrate on,” Rocky murmured, lifting and slowly striding towards the table with a plate of cake in his hands.

  


“Holy shit...” Jeremy whispered, soon beaming at his brother, “That's the cutest, cheesiest fuckin' thing I've ever seen in my life.”

  


“ _Shuddup._ ”

  


“Hey mister, watch your language. Otherwise, you won't be getting' some helpful tips from your local artist.”

  


“Yeah, yeah,” he gently placed the cake on the table, putting his hands on his hips, “Ain't that just delicious, Jer?”

  
  
He gave Rocky a look, resulting in hearing an exasperated sigh.

  


“The _cake_ , Jeremy.”

  


“I know, I know,” Jeremy held his hands up defensively, “I don't need even _more_ flattery to one of my many talents.”

  


He watched his brother jokingly roll his eyes then head back to the fridge to get more supplies out. Jeremy watched as icing, a bag of sweets, and edible cake decorations were plopped onto the plaid tablecloth.

  


“Holy _shit,_ Rocky. You never told me you could bake!”

  


“I kinda can't. The cake is store-bought.”

  


“....Oh.”

  


“ _Buuut,”_ Rocky turned around, handing Jeremy a pastry bag of icing, “I design posters for gigs a lot. You draw a lot. I'd like to think we can be left to our own devices, yeah?”

  


Jeremy had a cocky, big grin on his face, “Oh, _hell_ yeah.”

  


About half an hour passed as the two brothers speculated and decorated, bickering and catching up all the while. Jeremy thought that there was more than enough icing on the freaking thing, but Rocky wanted more stuff piled on the cake.

  


Then, they heard the jingling of keys and the sound of the doorknob turning. Rocky and Jeremy looked to each other, then at the cake in front of them. Their seconds were _seriously_ numbered.

  


“Shit, I don't know where to put the 'Thank you' cookie...” came Rocky's nervous murmur.

  


Jeremy stopped being exasperated at that moment-- the cookie was the prized jewel of the whole pastry. That thing had to be in the _damn perfect spot_ , and nothing less.

  


“Awright, awright, let's see.....” he took a deep breath, hopping in place before staring at the cake. The sides were out of the picture due to all of the syrup and icing placed, Coriander's name was on most of the cake...

  


But there was _one_ spot that was empty and stuck out like a sore thumb.

  


“Of freakin' _course,_ ” Jeremy muttered, grabbing and sticking the cookie in the middle and closing an eye, “Huh... yeah, it's lookin' pretty good. I ain't a baker, but I think we did a good job.”

  


Rocky went and ruffled his little brother's hair, “You sure that ain't because you're the one who made it?”

  


“ _Pfft_ , nah. I may be awesome, but I know a team effort when I see it. And we make a pretty freakin' good team.”

  


The door flew open and in came a taller man with a bag of groceries in his hands. He turned, beaming once he saw the brothers in the kitchen.

  


“Rockefelleeeeeer!”

  


Gently tossing the bag onto the counter, he wrapped his younger brothers into a bear hug. Rocky hugged back, and Jeremy tried to do the same while struggling to breathe a bit.

 

“Jordie! You really made it!”  
  


“As if I would miss your first big performance! What good biggest brother would I be?” he then turned to Jeremy, locking the smaller man into a soft choke-hold and ruffling his hair, “ _And_ I get to visit my baby bro! It's been ages!”

  


Jeremy chuckled, “C'mon man, I'm in my twenties!”

  


“You may be in your twenties, but you're still the youngest,” he squeezed _just_ a bit tighter, “And so I have to give you a noogie _every time_ I see you.”

  


“ _Stooop!”_

  


The two laughed, and soon Jordie released his death grip on Jeremy. He looked up to the eldest and tilted his head.

  


“No Mikey?”

  


Jordie shook his head, “He couldn't get the day off.”

  


Jeremy scoffed, “Figures...”

  


“C'mon...” he gently put a hand on his baby brother's shoulder, “We both know that he wouldn't miss things like this for the _world,_ if he could help it.”

  


“...I guess.”

  


Jordie's brow was still knit with concern, but there were dishes that had to be placed and spills to avoid. So, they both scrambled to sort everything out, and the noise in the apartment soon became a familiar tune to Jeremy's ears.

  


The light banter and laughter, the sound of cars rushing by on the roads. The chill and whisper of the winter winds moving through their urban Boston neighborhood. There truly was no place like home, and the lack of silence was a comfort.

  


Eventually most of the family was in the house, and a familiar face strolled over to Rocky and slung an arm over his shoulder, giving him a gentle headbutt.

  


To that, Jeremy gave the duo a fond smile and looked away. They seemed happy, and his family being happy made him happy, too. Soon, the stranger gave Jeremy a wave, tossing him the most recent issue of _The Amazing Spiderman_.

  


Jeremy beamed, “Cori, holy _shit!”_

  


Cori started to put a finger to his lips, but he couldn't get the message across in time. The entire room quieted to murmurs, and Jeremy could already _feel_ the daggers being bored into him by his mother.

  


“Holy, uh... Holy _moly_ , Ma!” he gave a nervous chuckle, “Yeah! Spider-Man, y'know?”

  


“Oh, I know,” she nodded, “What _you_ need to know is how to watch your mouth in this house.”

  


Then the whole house _exploded_ into laughter. Jeremy had to shout to make sure he was heard.

  


He was being honest-- there was no way he could navigate toward his Ma without being bumped around like a pinball. One step on the kitchenette tiles, and everything would be _ruined._ Spills, bumps, burns. Name the casualty, and it would probably happen if Jeremy dared to step into the crowd.

  


“ _Sorry, Ma!”_

  


“ _Don't worry, Jerbear! Just make sure it doesn't happen again.”_

  


“ _Love you, Ma!”_

  


“ _Love you too, sweetie!”_

  


Jeremy turned back, “Thank you _so much_ , man. I've been meaning to get this issue for _weeks_.”

  


“Of course, Jer,” Cori fixed his glasses with a grin, “What good sort-of-bro would I be if I didn't know?”

  


“Oh yeah, speakin' of bros!” he whipped his head around to find Rocky, raising his voice once he was spotted, _“_ _ **ROCKET!**_ _NOW I_ **KNOW** _WE DIDN'T JUST BUST OUR AS-..._ _ **BUMS**_ _ON THAT FREAKIN' CAKE FOR YOU TO FORGET ABOUT IT!”_

  


Jordie turned and gave a chuckle, “Man, keep it down! This place isn't that big.”

  


“When you're the youngest, you _never_ keep it down.”

  


The two exchanged a small peal of laughter until Jeremy turned to his friend, who looked bewildered.

  


Cori blinked, “...Cake?”

  


“Cake.”

  


“Whatever for?”

  


“Sorry man, but for once in my life, my lips are sealed,” Jeremy gave him a wink, “Plus, the cake was all Rocky's idea. I just helped put it together.”

  


“What...?”

  


It only took a few heartbeats before Rocky seemingly teleported next to Jeremy, holding the cake out while beaming at the bespectacled man.

  


“Rocky...” Cori looked up, raising a brow, “What is this...?”

  


The man in question giggled in response, “Happy one year.”

  


Jeremy and Cori gasped at the same time, causing the rest of the house to look towards them. Jeremy had a big smile on his face, which was soon replaced with shock when Rocky was suddenly getting tackled to the ground.

  


If it weren't for his fast reflexes, the cake would have met its demise on their carpet. And even then, how far it slid on the plate put Jeremy on _thin freaking ice_. He gently pushed the cake a safer distance away from the edge and looked down and around the complex.

  


It was a sight to behold-- everyone got closer, Ma had her camera out, and the rest of the family rioted with cheer. The neighbors probably were going to get pissed, but they'd deal with that tomorrow.

  


For now, it was cheer and warmth and bustling. And honestly? Jeremy wouldn't have it any other freaking way.

  


Whats a better way to spend a Friday night than with your brothers and your music brother's boyfriend, about to eat some good ass food, and waiting for the last two brothers to show up for the party to begin?

  


Speaking of, Soda and Keith were taking a while... hopefully everything was going well.

  


Eventually, the crowd dispersed and Cori and Rocky were still on the floor with a pile of giggles.

  


Jeremy was getting tired of holding this cake. He strolled and set it on the counter when he _thought_ he saw the knob to the front door wiggle.

  


The door opened and Jeremy trotted over, throwing his arms open and wrapping his two brothers in a hug.

  


“Soda, K, you slowpokes are freakin' late!” he pulled back, chuckling, “You guys missed the best part.”

  


“Hey man, traffic's rough,” Soda brushed his long, dirty blonde locks back with a hand, “Especially since we had some, uh... complications.”

  


“Rather unpleasant ones, too,” Kieth concluded with a huff, “We even missed the first half of the concert because of them.”

  


The trio's laughter quickly died. Jeremy's eyes widened, noticing just how disheveled Keith looked. Soda met his gaze with a worried look. Jeremy looked back at Keith and noticed more and more blemishes on his brother.

  


Namely one...

  


_Why was there a big bruise on Keith's cheek?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEEZES UNI HAS KEPT ME SO BUSY....... I usually write at night, but sometimes I have so much homework or my mind blanks and I can't think of how to make the scene flow. But I managed to get it done and I'm super glad I did!  
> I hope everyone has been having a great February so far!! <3  
> And YES we finally meet Scout! I hope he isn't too ooc and that this chapter of his doesn't drag. I tried to capture his rebellious ways but also how he views the people in his life, but didn't realize how much I wrote.  
> There miiight be quite the contrast between our two leads lol.  
> I HAD a Valentines drabble in the works, though at this rate, I might as well call it a regular drabble. ^ ^ );;; I'll try getting it done, though!!  
> Anyways! I hope you're having a wonderful day, and thank you so much for reading! Your support means so much to me!! ♥♡♥♡♥


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